You May Also Like / View all maxioms
These most brisk and giddy-paced times. -Twelfth Night. Act ii. Sc. 4.
These most brisk and giddy-paced times. -Twelfth Night. Act ii. Sc. 4.
I remember, the players have often mentioned it as an honour to
Shakespeare, that in his writing (whatsoever he read more
I remember, the players have often mentioned it as an honour to
Shakespeare, that in his writing (whatsoever he penned) he never
plotted out a line. My answer hath been, would he had blotted a
thousand.
Full fathom five thy father lies; Of his bones are coral made; Those are pearls that were his eyes: Nothing read more
Full fathom five thy father lies; Of his bones are coral made; Those are pearls that were his eyes: Nothing of him that doth fade But doth suffer a sea-change Into something rich and strange. -The Tempest. Act i. Sc. 2.
Like a man made after supper of a cheese-paring: when a' was naked, he was, for all the world, like read more
Like a man made after supper of a cheese-paring: when a' was naked, he was, for all the world, like a forked radish, with a head fantastically carved upon it with a knife. -King Henry IV. Part II. Act iii. Sc. 2.
A man can die but once. -King Henry IV. Part II. Act iii. Sc. 2.
A man can die but once. -King Henry IV. Part II. Act iii. Sc. 2.
Every why hath a wherefore. -The Comedy of Errors. Act ii. Sc. 2.
Every why hath a wherefore. -The Comedy of Errors. Act ii. Sc. 2.
We have heard the chimes at midnight. -King Henry IV. Part II. Act iii. Sc. 2.
We have heard the chimes at midnight. -King Henry IV. Part II. Act iii. Sc. 2.
We are ready to try our fortunes To the last man. -King Henry IV. Part II. Act iv. Sc. 2.
We are ready to try our fortunes To the last man. -King Henry IV. Part II. Act iv. Sc. 2.
When great poets sing,
Into the night new constellations spring,
With music in the air that dulls read more
When great poets sing,
Into the night new constellations spring,
With music in the air that dulls the craft
Of rhetoric. So when Shakespeare sang or laughed
The world with long, sweet Alpine echoes thrilled
Voiceless to scholars' tongues no muse had filled
With melody divine.